


In an Hour and Thirty-Seven Minutes

by aohatsu



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Flash Forward, Hiding Their Feelings, M/M, Precognition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 06:52:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aohatsu/pseuds/aohatsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A flashforward takes place when someone's consciousness jumps forward to an unspecified point in the future for an unspecified amount of time. In David's case, he blacks out on stage, halfway between lyrics, and wakes up an hour and thirty-seven minutes later, never having been kissed yet remembering exactly how it feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In an Hour and Thirty-Seven Minutes

It happened abruptly, without even the slightest warning.

He didn't hear his voice stop singing, and he didn't see the turning of the bright lights as his point of view slipped. He didn't feel the hard, metal stage when his left arm slammed into it, followed by his head colliding against it with an ugly snap, hard and fast, leaving a bruise that he’ll be able to see in the mirror for a week, every time he goes to take a shower. He didn't hear the fans' shouts turn to screams, or notice when one of the guys in his band dropped his guitar and ran to the center of the stage, grabbing at David's limp body, yelling at one of the nearby techs in bright orange t-shirts to _call 9-1-1! Now!_

When David finally comes to an hour and thirty-seven minutes later, the doctor is staring at him like he's some sort of walking miracle. It takes him a moment to blink up into the bright room, with its white walls and white lights. When he does, Anna, his manager, falls into a chair and says, “Oh, thank God.”

David doesn't know anyone, personally, who has had a flashforward before. He knows about them, took the two-week cognitive neuroscience unit in biology four years ago, back in high school. It happens, sometimes. There are theories on what sparks it—stress is what Mrs. Barcot said triggered it, but there were ideas like age and trauma were the real causes. But however it works, it causes the brain to jump forward in time. In the same way that you can remember your tenth birthday party, when you have a flashforward, you’re remembering something. The thing is, during a flashforward, you’re remembering something that hasn’t happened yet, and the experience puts so much strain the cognitive area of your brain that you end up blacking out and falling unconscious for the entire duration of the memory.

David had always thought it was kind of fascinating, until he was the one blacking out, remembering things that he’d never imagined could ever happen.

"There's never been anyone stay unconscious for so long," the doctor says, looking at him carefully, her eyes a bright blue. "Do you remember everything?"

The answer is a painful _yes_. David can remember every second, from the moment they'd tumbled into the rumpled sheets of some hotel, and—and they had worked his jeans off together, both of them tugging so _desperately_ , and hot air had blown against his neck, soft lips brushing against the back of his shoulder as their bodies collided and slid together, touching and _touching_ , to the moment that he'd slid his back against a wall and fell to the floor, holding the man who couldn't stop crying, cell phone lying open on the tiled floor next to them, the dial tone stretching out into the otherwise silent room, echoing.

"I can't remember anyone going into a flashforward quite so publicly," the doctor says, and David flinches. "But you're healthy. There were no side effects. You're free to go once security thinks they can get you to your car, if you're sure you don't want to tell us what you saw?"

No, he doesn't think he could tell her even if it wasn't a choice.

He's dressed within fifteen minutes, in a new set of clothes his manager had brought him from the bus. Her heels click as she drags him down the hall, and David is blindly going where she and the two extra-large, bulky men in black suits are leading him until he sees a sign, and abruptly turns.

"David?" He can hear Anna say, and he stops.

"I want to say hi to the kids. You know, since I'm here." He doesn't give her time to say no, and spends the next four hours jumping from bed to bed and laughing as he tries to recall the lyrics to _I Just Can't Wait to Be King_ and _Kiss the Girl_ , even when some of the older patients trickle into the pediatric ward, and the paparazzi stand outside, flashing their cameras every time the doors open.

 

"What did you see?" his father asks, two hours after David's family gets there, having flown out before he'd woken up from the blacking out. There'd been lots of hugging, crying and some incoherent Spanish that made David realize he hasn't been home in way too long, all of the shows taking him everywhere but Utah.

David shakes his head. "You don't want to know."

His mom smiles, a little sadly. "Whatever it is, you got a warning, mijo. Maybe we can help."

David remembers the way he smiled and laughed, saying, _"Gosh,_ Cook _, don't—"_ even as rough palms slid down his stomach, and teeth grazed against his ear, a loud huff just as audible as the low growl that followed, _"Telling me to_ stop _, Arch?"_

"No," David starts to tell his mother, shaking his head. But then he remembers the loud ring that Cook had grumbled about the third time it went off, finally reaching for it—and hefting himself up and onto David to do it, making him laugh and say, _"Get off!"_ and push at Cook until the man nearly a decade older than him stumbled out of bed and said, _"What?"_ into the phone, voice broken in the dark.

David drops his fork, the lasagna splattering, and he looks at his Mother, eyes wide, and says, " _I_ can help though! I know when it happens. Maybe if they know exactly when it—"And he's jumping out of his chair and running across the room as fast as he can, tripping as he slams his knees onto the carpeted floor next to the hotel bed, his cell phone lying atop the comforter, green light indicating that it's been charging.

There aren't any missed calls or text messages from Cook, but everyone in the world knows it was just a flashforward by now, so he's not surprised Cook hasn't called to check on him. He will, in a day or so, once he knows David isn't being tugged in eight directions by everyone else. But for this, _for this_ , David can't wait, and he's touching Cook's name even as his Mom is settling on the bed next to him, opening her mouth to ask him—

Cook answers, and he must be at the post-concert signing, because David can hear him say, "It's Archie~!" and the hundreds of shouts that follow the statement.

All it takes is "Cook, _Cook_ , please, I saw—I need—" for Cook to say goodbye to the fans and give David his attention.

 

David has never been in Cook's old house before. He's been to the new one, in California, more times than he can even remember, but not the old one, where his Mom and Dad still live, that one he's never been to until now. He arrives there an hour before Cook, whose plane won't land for another forty-five minutes, even though it’s just February, and it shouldn’t be that hard to get a last minute flight, right?

David lets Mrs. Cook hug him, and even hugs back, and doesn't move away when her husband claps him on the shoulder. Andrew nods at him, and Adam gives him a thumbs up while saying, "Hey, so, I hear you like Disney songs?" and pointing at the two children who are staring up at him like they are waiting for him to break out into song, right here, right now. (Probably, David thinks, because Cook would sing songs about Hannah Montana in front of the president if they asked him to.) Adam is just smiling though, and so David just nods and sings, the kids joining in after a few verses, until Cook gets there. (And when he does, David feels terrible, because Cook—Cook has to want to see his brother, hug him and talk to him and just _be with him_ , but David can't stop himself from jumping up and throwing his arms around Cook's torso, pulling him tight and close and not letting go for he doesn't even know how long, just knows that Cook winds his arms around him too, settling his hands on his back, letting his bags drop to the floor, forgotten, until Beth coughs and David finally pulls himself away, sheepishly trying to smile at the way Cook rubs the back of his neck, obviously uncomfortable, and mostly being unsuccessful.)

 

The doctors say they'll do what they can, that the knowledge of _when_ it's going to hit might help—but they aren't willing to make promises. Adam is shrugging, and saying, "Does this mean everyone's going to be treating me all nice for the next five months?" and Cook snorts and pushes him in the shoulder and Andrew attacks him from the other side. David turns away from them, and doesn't know how they can possibly smile and laugh right now, all just playing around, when he can remember Cook's face, small and broken with a phone pressed against his ear, and it's _killing_ him.

Beth set out a sleeping bag on the floor of Cook's old bedroom that night, with about five blankets, for David to sleep in before he has to leave in the morning and get back in time for his next show. Cook will leave the day after to get back in time for his. Neither of them actually falls asleep though, or even settles in, and instead they just sit down and talk about everything they can't during rushed phone calls and doubled-up interviews, over twitter and text or occasionally the fan's concert posters and YouTube videos. David pretends to be tired, the old alarm clock blinking red digits at him from across the room, _3:42 AM_ , and lets his right side lean against Cook's left, warm and comfortable, and closes his eyes while trying to ignore the way Cook tenses. They keep talking like that for another hour, neither of them mentioning David's uncharacteristic need for physical comfort, even though he can feel his heart beating fast, dancing in his chest like a quickstep number.

David leaves the next morning without telling Cook that he remembers what it feels like to press against him, all skin, flush with heat and sweat, laughing into every dip of skin, at his elbow or inner thigh, hands tugging in his hair, weak and strong all at once, just unable to let go, everything so perfect—because they've never done that before, and David shouldn't be remembering it at all.

But ultimately, David can't forget. It was a glimpse into the future—something that _will_ happen— _could_ happen, at least. And it was real, so, so real. It wasn't just the way their bodies slid against each other, painfully embarrassing cries and gasps falling out of Archie's mouth as Cook pushed into him. David can remember the way he felt when Cook grinned at him and shoved him through the doorway of the room, climbing on top of him after David fell onto the bed, bouncing with the force of it, and the way he grinned back, waiting for Cook to catch up with him. They'd laughed and smiled and said things like, _"Cook!"_ and _"Ar-ch!"_ and kissed under the cotton sheets as though it was completely normal, something they’d done before, hundreds of times before. David had been unbelievably happy, like he could burst with all of the emotion swirling around inside his chest.

David remembered, too, holding Cook against his chest, their legs spread out across the carpet, as they sat in the dark, and he whispered, again and again, over and over, _"I love you, Cook, okay? I love you, please, I love you,"_ until he was crying against the warm skin of his friend's—his lover’s—back.

In five months, David is going to be in love with Cook, but now that he's seen it, he can't push away the fact that he already is.

 

 **davidarchie** @thedavidcook How long will you be in town? We should hang out!! :)  
 **thedavidcook** @davidarchie Just tell me when and where.

David thinks it's like any conversation they've ever had before, except for the way his palms start to get sweaty as he waits for Cook's response, and how he can't stop smiling once he finally gets it and it's a _yes_. But when David sits on the hotel couch’s armrest two days later, he can’t force a smile.

Her name is Alexis, and David thinks she has a really pretty smile, and she’s almost taller than Cook—teases him about it before sitting on his lap, letting out a (really high-pitched, probably fake) laugh when Cook starts telling her his weird jokes. Her skirt is short and rides up too high for David to look directly at her without his face turning red.

Neal is sitting on the floor with Andy, and they’re trying to figure out how to hook up the Play Station to the hotel’s television without blowing anything up, but David isn’t sure they’re any closer to figuring it out than he was five minutes ago. (Because trying to hook it up had been a good distraction, even if it took him ten minutes to realize he didn’t have the right chords.) Cook is just drunk enough to have mostly forgotten David is even _there_ , and with the way Alexis keeps whispering in his ear, David kind of wishes he could forget too.

“Fucking TV—think we can get a hotel person up here this late?” Andy groans, throwing something important-looking at Kyle, who manages to catch it just barely, before throwing it back, glancing at Cook and says, “Yeah, whatever, I’m rooming with Monty tonight.” He leaves the room, and Andy follows, probably to get the hotel phone and call somebody up. Neal is looking between Alexis and David like he’s not sure who—or what—would be better to interrupt while he waits for Andy to get back.

Already feeling horrifyingly out of place, David slips off the couch and dodges into the kitchen area. It’s not like Cook has never had girlfriends before, or whatever, and David’s twenty now, so it shouldn’t even be a big deal, but it’s like, he _hates_ it. And hate is a horrible word, but his stomach is all wrapped up in knots and he kind of feels like throwing up.

“Hey, kid,” Neal says as he walks in. He pulls open the refrigerator and David startles as he feels the cool air through his jeans. “Want one?” Neal adds nonchalantly, holding a beer up.

David hesitates, and then nods, “Sure.”

Neal does a double-take, looks at him properly, and says, “What, really?” before grabbing a second one and shutting the door. He holds it out, grinning, and gives it a little swing. “You sure Daddy won’t get mad?”

He’s absolutely positive his father would be _furious_ , but that’s not the reason he doesn’t drink, and right now, he wouldn’t even care if it was, because he’s going to be stuck hanging out with these guys for a while (until Cook and Alexis sneak off, and Neal and Andy both pass out, and David _maybe_ falls asleep on the sofa), and he’s really sure he can’t handle that—and alcohol (even if it’s really gross, and he’ll throw up in the morning, and wish he’d never had any ever, and end up confessing everything to the bishop the next time he can make it to church) will maybe help, judging from the way Cook and everyone else always act when they’ve had a little too much. He rolls his eyes, and reaches out to take the beverage out of Neal’s hand, saying, “Oh, just give it to me!”

Of course he has to give it back so that Neal can get the lid off, which makes the older man laugh for like, _ever_ , before finally giving it back and David can take a really big drink really fast and half cough when he realizes how bad it actually tastes. “Why do you _drink_ this?”

“Come on, if you don’t know why, you don’t deserve to have any,” and Neal tries to steal the bottle back before David runs back into the other room, almost spilling it on Andy who laughs out loud when he sees him.

Neal forces him down to play some game where you run around in a car and shoot at people, and when David’s score beats Neal’s by twenty points, Neal hits him in the shoulder and says, “Damn, I thought you were supposed to be a goody-two-shoes Church boy or something.”

David frowns, and shoots an old lady with a small dog before shrugging and saying, “It’s not like this is _real_ ,” and Neal just laughs and curses and laughs some more, and David only loses a round right after Cook takes Alexis into one of the bedrooms.

 

Neal is glaring by the time he has sixty points more than David, but Andy is the one who says, “Hey, you gave him the beer.” Which is true, Neal _did_ give him it. Well, the first one, anyway, and the second one David got himself while Andy took over his spot in the game, and the third one—well, David can’t really remember when he got the third one, except that it wasn’t the _last_ one, and Neal and Andy shouldn’t even be complaining because they’ve had lots _too_ , and it’s not even fair that they’re looking at him like that.

“It’s not fair; you guys had, like, a million!” David says, and his shot misses the overweight janitor by like, six feet.

Neal’s the one who says, “Yeah, but we’re used to it. And I’m the one Dave’s gonna’ be pissed at when you’re puking in the morning.” He makes this big, elaborate sigh and throws his controller at Andy (who doesn’t catch it), before pulling himself up off the ground and grabbing at David’s arms to tug him up as well.

David struggles, says, “What are you—“

“Come on, bed. And water, actually, fuck, Andy, go get him a glass.” Neal pulls him up to his feet and David almost falls back down, except Neal grabs him harder and tugs him up so high that David thinks maybe he’s holding him, because he can’t even feel the floor anymore, except that’s when Neal tosses him up and he really _is_ holding him, and saying, “Shit, you’re heavy for such a tiny—“

“I am not!” David yells, and kicks and finally gives in to being carried into the second bedroom (which means Neal and Andy are going to stay up all night, because David is totally stealing their room—or wait, do they share a room? Probably not, so there must be a third one, or something—and that’s so unfair that they’re making him go to bed when they’re not).

“You really are,” Neal just grumbles, and kicks the door open and kind of fumbles through it, half-tossing David onto the bed instead of actually setting him down, and suddenly David remembers being pushed down on this exact same bed, with the door left ajar in the left corner, and the too-big window with its dark red curtains pulled shut to block out unwanted cameras, and the wooden end tables on either side of the bed’s header—he remembers a hard, warm body landing on his, laughing as a hand slipped up his shirt, palming his stomach like some sort of treasure.

He leans up and kisses Neal, letting a hand fist into his purple button-up, the black t-shirt’s material underneath adding to what David uses to pull Neal down on top of him. And Neal stays still for a minute, almost starting to kiss back out of surprise, before his arm slips and he lifts himself up too fast and says, “ _What the fuck?_ ”

David’s headache is awful, and sudden, and piercing, and he squeezes his eyes shut to block out the images of Cook’s stubble brushing against his chin as they kiss, legs kicking at the hot, sticky sheets barely covering them—because it’s not him and Cook right now, and it never will be, and he just needs to _stop_.

“Sorry,” he mumbles as he puts a hand against his forehead, and adds, “I drank too much.”

Neal starts laughing, and it’s _really loud_ , and he says, “Fuck, Dave is gonna’ _kill_ me,” as he shuts the door on his way out, leaving David to fall asleep against the red pillow extraordinarily fast.

 

The first thing David does the next morning is roll over and throw up. He breathes hard with his chin pressed up against the side of the mattress for a while before he finally moves to get up, wincing at the pounding of his skull and the gross smell starting to rise from where he vomited onto the floor. He vaguely remembers drinking (oh my Gosh, _why_ had he done that?) and playing video games until really late, and then _kissing Neal_ , and in-between throwing up (in the toilet this time) and getting a wet washcloth to clean up the mess in his room, he mutters, “Oh, crap, crap, crap,” and hopes that Neal will maybe pretend nothing ever happened. (It’s not like he’s never done anything embarrassing, and usually doesn’t even have to be drunk to do it, if he’s anything like Cook—)

Cook. Cook and—well, David can’t remember her name at the moment, but she’s still _there_. They’re probably still in Cook’s room, snuggled in under the blankets together, warm and comfortable and _awful_ , because that should be _him_ —

David finishes cleaning up as best he can and opens his window to let in some fresh air before going out into the hallway. He’s still in his jeans and blue t-shirt from the night before, but they’re rumpled now and he tugs at them as he yawns and walks into the main sitting room, where Cook is, kind of loudly, yelling at Neal and Andy. (Who are both kind of ignoring him and playing their video game instead, which makes David wonder if they had ever _stopped_.)

“Um, Cook?” David asks kind of hesitantly from the entrance to the room. He’s not entirely sure he’s allowed to come in at the moment, because Cook looks, well, _mad_.

Cook whips around though and Neal looks up from the game for a moment, says, “Morn’, Arch,” and goes back to it. Cook walks towards him and says, “Are you okay?” much more quiet than he had been a minute ago, his eyes wide and worried.

“Um, yes? I have, maybe a headache? But it’s fine, just—I’m going to get some water?”

“Yeah, water—I can’t believe Neal let you drink—“ Cook is saying, pushing David towards the kitchen, his hand warm on David’s back, even through the shirt material.

“He didn’t _let_ me. I mean, he didn’t like, try to take it away, or whatever, but I mean, it was my choice. I’m the one who did it, so,” and Cook is raising an eyebrow at him even as he’s grabbing one of those clear, plastic cups the hotel provides and is filling it with warm water—because nobody had run out to the ice machine yet, probably.

“Speaking of, what the hell, Archie? You never drink.”

And David totally doesn’t mean to say it, but he has a headache and is kind of wondering where Cook’s date is, and he’s kind of depressed and angry all at once, so he says it anyway, and feels really bad like instantly once he has. “Well, you were kind of _distracted_ , and I wanted something to do, and—I didn’t think it mattered.”

Cook is rubbing at the back of his neck, like he does when he’s uncomfortable, and staring at the floor, and he says, “I’m, uh, sorry, Arch—it just—not used to having to watch what I’m doing when it’s just those two.” He gestures out the door, to Neal and Andy, and David grips his cup hard and drinks it all.

“You can do whatever you want, Cook. I’m not—you’re not _babysitting_ just because I wanted to hang out with you.”

“No, Arch, that’s not what I meant—“

"It doesn't matter!" David yells, suddenly, closing his eyes. "This isn't going to work."

It's quiet, for a moment, and when David opens his eyes, Cook looks as though he'd been slapped across the face. His eyes are wide, and his mouth is parted, open, his hand half held-out as if he was reaching towards David before being shot down.

David shakes his head, and says, "I don't—I'm just—I don't feel good. I'm sorry. You—you're fine. I mean, it’s okay. I think—I just want to go home now? I’ll, uh, call my Dad—“

“Don’t.” Cook is grabbing David’s hand with the cell phone in it, about to touch his Dad’s ID, because it was right there, second on the list of favorite numbers. “If you want to go home, I’ll take you. But you’re right; I was shitty company last night, so we should go have breakfast or something this morning. That okay?”

David shuffles his feet, and wants to say _no_ really badly, but wants to say _yes_ even more, and Cook looks kind of defeated but hopeful at the same time. David nods his head, fiddles his thumb in his left jean pocket, and puts his phone away. “What about—“

“Lexi? I, uh,” and he looks kind of chagrined as he says it, “sent her home, when Neal—anyway, it’s just you and me. Unless you want the guys to come.”

David shakes his head this time. Somehow, the headache has gone down a little, and his stomach isn’t screaming at him for the nearest toilet, or sink, or strategically located piece of kitchen tile. (Much.)

He says, “Just us, please?”

Cook smiles, softly, says, "Yeah, that sounds good to me."

 

They end up sneaking into a little diner, with hats and jackets and big sunglasses, and sit towards the very back so that they can at least take the disguises off to eat. The waiter double-takes when he comes to get their order, but they never get barraged by teenage girls while eating, so David leaves a really big tip when they finish. Before that, though, they talk over Cook's stack of pancakes, and David's bacon and eggs, and for the first time since last night, David is comfortable.

It doesn't take long, however, for him to fidget with his fork, and ask, "So, she's—"

Cook doesn't even let him ask, saying, "No. She's not."

They're quiet after that, until Cook lifts his fork, two pieces of pancake hanging off of it, and says, "Did I put on too much syrup?" (It's dripping and is really kind of gross looking, so David just gives him a look and Cook sighs before putting it down and pushing it away, finished.)

David finishes his toast, and says, as they're leaving the diner, "My head kind of feels better now."

"Yeah, something about breakfast is always good for hangovers," Cook says, tossing an arm around David's shoulders, randomly, making David jump and look up at him, startled. Cook just walks them to his car though, casual as ever, and David tries to keep looking completely normal, even though he's sure Cook can feel how wound up he is.

"So, last night," Cook says, turning the key in the ignition, starting the car as David clicks his seatbelt in. "You got to bed alright?"

David shrugs, "I guess. Neal, um, sort of, um." He stops, embarrassed.

Cook narrows his eyes and says, "What?"

"I was—he ended up, um, carrying me? To bed?" David says, quietly and slowly, as if maybe Cook won't laugh if he hesitates long enough.

But Cook is gripping the steering wheel tightly, and his jaw is tight when he says, "But he just—left, after that, yeah?"

David doesn't know why Cook wants to know, and thinks that maybe—maybe Neal _told_ Cook, and now Cook is waiting for David to say it, so he can laugh, or whatever, or maybe he feels like they should talk about it, but doesn't want to be the one bringing it up? Apparently, David takes too long to answer, shrinking in his seat like a coward instead, and Cook finally says, " _Fuck_ , what happened?" in this really angry voice.

David flinches, and says, quietly, "In—in my defense, I was really, um, drunk, when I kissed him?"

The car swerves into the wrong lane, and David throws his hand out in surprise, yelling, and Cook rights the car immediately, two cars behind them honking furiously. David asks, "What was _that_?" loudly, at the same time that Cook says, "Jesus, fuck, sorry."

"Why did you do that?" David asks, still too-loud, and he winces when he realizes that he'd hit his hand against the dashboard hard enough to bruise, and it's throbbing painfully now.

Cook doesn't answer, but keeps his eyes on the road until they get back to David's house, where Cook is supposed to be dropping him off. David stares at the house, daunted, and not getting out, but not looking at Cook either. They sit there, when Cook parks, for what seems like a long time. Eventually, David says, quietly, "Cook?"

Cook reaches over and touches his shoulder, and when David looks up, he has a smile on his face. But it's a hard smile, and all David can think is _it's fake_ , even as he stumbles out of the car, shocked into auto-pilot. He doesn't—Cook's never looked at him like that, all fake and _lying_ about something. It shouldn't be a big deal, honestly, because Cook is so much older than him, and so much cooler, and they never see each other, pretty much, and even when they were together day after day after day, it was all work, really. Work they loved, but _work_. Were they really even friends? Could David call them that, or was he just fooling himself into some sort of pipedream, like the little kid he was in comparison to Cook?

It doesn't occur to him to think about what Cook had to lie about until hours later, lying in his bed in the dark room, holding a stuffed cat Amber had left in his room against his chest as some poor replacement for warmth and he tries not to cry.

 

Three weeks later, he stays behind his parents at church on Sunday, the first time he’s been able to make it in months, and goes to the Bishop’s office, and he tells him _everything_ , from what he saw about Adam to how he feels about Cook now, and even though the Bishop doesn’t tell him what to do, he smiles warmly, and they talk about how flexible futures are, and it’s what you want that matters, and what you do to get it.

He isn’t sure if the Bishop meant that as in _You don’t have to be with him if you figure out how to change it,_ or _If you love him, you’ve already seen that you can be with him_. Either way, David feels a little better when he leaves, and even tries to write a song when he gets home.

 

 

It's been three months now, since David saw a glimpse of what the future was supposed to look like. He's seen Cook twice, in total. The first time, when he'd—when they'd told the doctors about when Adam's cancer was going to finally win the fight (oh, but Cook texted him, and said everything looks fine, that chemo was going good, and that the doctors said it was going to be _fine_ ), and the second, when Cook was in town for a show, and David had (sort of) spent the night hanging out with him and Neal and Andy (and Kyle, and Monty, even though they'd been smart and had taken off ages before Cook had brought a girl into it).

David, more or less, staring at Cook's twitter updates about how awesome Germany is, thinks _so that's that then_. There's no way Cook could fall for David in two months, even if he wasn't halfway across the world during the whole duration.

Not all flashforward's come true. It’s been proved. So what he saw—what he _felt_ , trailing his hands up Cook's sides, feeling the skin underneath his fingertips give, and Cook's dark eyes as he pushed David underneath him, pressing against him, locking him there until he had to say, had to beg, "Please, please, Cook, _God_ ,"—was just... something that could have happened, only David had obviously screwed it up somehow.

His parents watch him more and more as the days go by, and by the time May finally rolls around, two months later, David has even abandoned his last hopes, the crazy ones he'd never admit out loud to thinking about, like that Cook might do something distinctly Cook-like and ask him out over television from the Eiffel Tower in France or something. His parents, also, look worried, but they aren't the ones who come to his room, knocking quietly, and then slip in when he says, "Yeah?"

Claudia smiles, a little bit sad, and gets on his bed, sitting cross-legged. "So," she says, staring at him expectedly.

"So what?" David asks, closing his laptop where Cook's twitter page is up (and has been for the past week, even though David really has given up on the whole stupid thing, honestly).

"What's supposed to be happening in two days?" she asks, not beating around the bush, like, at all, and David is used to her being like that, but it kind of sucks right now.

"It's—they said Adam would be fine?" he says back, but it’s more of a question than a statement, and he knows it. He was out for an hour and forty minutes, and even David knows more than just one thing will have happened in that long of a black out—of a flashforward. Claudia is looking at him with a face that clearly reads, _And?_

He lowers his eyes and face until he's looking at the floor, and then says, quietly, "In—in my flashforward? I found out about Adam. But—I never. Said how I found out."

"We know," Claudia says.

"What?"

"Mom knows you weren't telling us everything. It has something to do with Cook, doesn't it? You get all agitated whenever anyone mentions him, these days, and I saw your computer—you're like stalking him. Is something supposed to happen to him, Dave? It might be important, come on." David realizes she thinks he's scared Cook is going to—get hurt, or do something stupid, or be in an accident, or something crazy like that.

"Nothing happens to him!" David says, quickly, waving an arm up and down. "I was just, um, with him. When his Mom called to—tell him—about Adam."

Claudia says, "Oh," and furrows her brow. "Then what's going on?"

David's leg is twitching, fast, and he can't make it stop, in the same way that he can't stop his mouth from finally opening, and saying, "I was _with_ him, Clauds, at two in the morning, in a hotel room, when he woke up because his Mom was calling. What do you _think_ was going on— _is_ going on?"

This time, he isn't the one who flinches, and when Claudia looks back up at him, her shoulders are tight and she looks confused and nervous. "You're—you and Cook—"

" _No_ ," David says, standing up from his computer chair. "We might have been, but he's in England, so it's obviously not going to happen!"

David hates that he's yelling at his big sister, hates that he's angry, and sad, and confused, and that all he wants is to see Cook, who isn't even the same _country_ as him. He's pretty sure he's crying when he says, "Can you just—please, go? It doesn't matter anymore."

Claudia leaves, giving him a hurt look on her way out, and it makes David feel even worse, because none of this is her fault, and he's taking it out on her anyway, like some sort of jerk. He falls onto his bed, kicks Claudia's purse off of it, and covers his face with his pillow. He breathes harshly, sort of desperate, and thinks, _don't cry, don’t cry_ and somehow, manages to succeed.

When he wakes up, five hours later, the house is empty, and all three cars are gone, leaving only his on the side of the street. He ends up making himself a sandwich before checking his phone (32 messages, none of them from Cook) and climbing into the shower, before finally falling back onto his bed.

This time, when he wakes up, it’s to a slight dip of his mattress near his feet, and it wakes him just enough for him to sleepily turn off his stomach and onto his side, thinking _the cat?_ even though they haven't had a cat in years. But it's not a cat, not even close, and David finds himself standing in the middle of the Heathrow Airport in London ten hours later.

He has no idea what he's doing, or why Daniel and Claudia had decided to force him into doing it at four in the morning, but he knows that Cook is performing at the O2, and that means he has to take, um, the North Greenwich Tube—and what line is that? Jubilee? England is kind of difficult to get around in, he thinks. By the time he's hailed a taxi, and let the driver pick out however much he owes him when they get to the arena, he realizes he has no idea how to actually get inside to Cook's show, because it's probably sold out, and this is _England_ , they probably won't recognize him, even if he was Cook's runner-up once upon a time.

Except apparently he didn't need to worry at all, because it takes exactly three minutes for about fifty girls to start yelling and run up to him, and some guy with a British accent (or is he the one with the American accent, here?) and a headset saves him, even though he says, "I have no idea who you are, but I'm taking a guess when I say the massive amount of ladies there didn't mistake you for some other chap on accident, yeah?"

"Um, I'm David Archuleta?" which gets no recognition at all, so he expands it a little and says, "David Cook's runner-up off of Ameri—"

"Oh, you're the little one, are you? We'll get you inside then, somehow." And then, and David has never been happier to be famous, really, the man—Alan, he says his name is—actually does get him in, in a black box type thing in the back so that he's not surrounded by girls, but so he can still actually see Cook performing.

Cook is amazing, running around the stage like he owns it, and he _does_ , at least for tonight, because hundreds of people are screaming his name, singing along with the words of every song, cramming in as close as they can just to get a better look at the season seven's American idol. David lets his fear drop while he watches, because it seems so out of place. Cook is—there's really no doubt that what David _remembers_ feeling, it didn't have anything to do with the fact that they were sleeping together, because David feels it _right now_ , hot tendrils of it stretching through his entire body.

Cook didn't have a flashforward, not like David. But he was _there_ , he was there, and he was feeling the same things as David. David could tell with every laugh and smile and tease and touch, he knew it, that Cook loved him in that future moment, indefinitely, without question, until the day they die and with no reservations. So if—if David feels that, _here_ , and _now_ , maybe there's a chance—

Maybe Cook does too.

 

When Cook finally finishes, bidding London a good night with a flourish and a jumping kind of floppy wave, David pushes himself through all of the security and men in suits, and has to run though a gathering of women with signs that say _Cougars for Cook_ (and isn't that funny, that that's spread, like, overseas, David almost wants to stop and laugh, or something), and when he finally gets to the edge that's roped off, he can _see_ Cook, walking through to get to the car—and he must have signed autographs before the concert, because he never _doesn't_ sign autographs, even when he's sick, because he has this huge appreciation for his fans (even the crazy ones, which David just kind of, admires, because, um, he usually tries not go anywhere near them, the, um, crazy ones)—but the man standing there says, "Hey, no. This area's off limits."

He feels sick, and wants to shout out Cook's name, only Cook wouldn't even hear him above all of the twelve thousand other people screaming for him, and so he just says, "But I—oh," and falls off his toes and onto his heels, watches the car, sees Cook getting in.

That's when he hears someone scream, "Is that David Archuleta?"

It's kind of—David really should have known better, that even if he wasn't very popular, or whatever, well-known, in London, he's at one of _Cook's_ concerts, running after him through crowds of fans, by himself and without any security detail at all, and most of Cook's fans will at least know _that other David_ , won't they? He backs up against the rope, and smiles, and thinks about what Anna is going to say when she finds out about this. (He's kind of worried about whether Claudia and Daniel are going to get in trouble? Since they knew he was doing it. Come to think of it, he probably should have just brought them along, except they had school, and Daniel, at least, would get in trouble for skipping _again_.)

He's sort of flinching, and the security guard behind him must care a little, at least, because he lifts the rope and says, "Come on, I don't know you are, but I'd rather not be the reason an some kid dies."

David ducks under and slips in, and smiles, relieved, at the fans, waving as he says, "Oh my Gosh, thank you," to the security guard, who just says, "That's alright. Take the exit right there," and points him to a big green door.

David looks longingly at the car, but dutifully starts walking in the direction less likely to have him jumped by the six large security guys standing in the path that leads to it. He cranes his neck, and fiddles with his phone in his pocket, wishing it would actually _work_ in London, but that would be—

 _Wait,_ he thinks. The only reason you're not supposed to call people when you're in another country is because, like, it's expensive right? David couldn't care less about money right now. He fumbles his phone out, ignoring the man behind him who yells, "Hey, hurry up!" and slides through until he finds **Cook, David** , and then he pushes.

But the call goes straight to voice mail, which means Cook still has it off from the show. David almost wants to yell, but instead goes through his list, and calls Neal, and then Andy, and even Kyle, and they all _have their phones off_. There's a woman in a David Cook t-shirt behind him now, saying, "Sir, you have to exit through the left door there, now, please," when on the second ring of the fifth call, it's _Monty_ who picks up and says, "David?" like he's completely bewildered that David Archuleta would be calling him ever at all (even though David has the whole band's numbers in his phone, because Cook gave him the whole list a long time ago, and it just seemed like a good thing to do, to put them all in, and apparently it _was_ , because if he hadn’t, he would have been stuck coming all the way to London for no reason!).

"Oh my Gosh, don't leave yet," David says, right as the woman touches him on the shoulder, and says, " _Sir_."

David can hear Monty yelling through the car, saying, "Dave, your boy's on the phone! Why the fuck is he calling me? You still have your phone off, dumbass?"

"Arch?" comes Cook's voice, tired and wary and sounding like he's not quite sure if this isn't some sort of prank. David can hear someone laughing in the background, too, and he thinks it might be Monty, so it would totally make sense, and he prays really quickly that Cook doesn't, like, hang up on him.

"Really, get out of the car, please? Because people in London don't, like, know who I am. Except the fans, but that's not really _helping_ me right now," and David knows he's whining, but he can't help it, this is—this is important, and it's not going well at all.

Cook says, " _What_?" though, and then yells, "Wait, don't start the car, I have to—" and then the fans are screaming because Cook is pushing himself out of the car again, out of the the left side, and is looking around and finally, finally, sees David, who is just relieved he isn't going to be pushed out of the exit anymore.

"Archie!" Cook yells, and then runs over, and he's covered in sweat, still, but David jumps through the woman's hold on his shoulder and collides with him anyway, wrapping his arms up around his neck.

Cook laughs, surprised, and hugs him back before pushing him away, and screwing his face up while saying, "What are you doing here?"

And David knows exactly what he's supposed to say--something like _I'm in love with you!_ or _We're supposed to be together right now! I saw it!_ or even just _I need to talk to you._ But he shakes his head, and says, "It's—you were great! I saw the whole show! It was awesome!"

Cook laughs again and drags David to the car, saying, "I can't believe you came to London for a show—don't you have stuff to do? Where's Anna?"

David pretends not to have heard the question by saying, "Hi!" to Neal when he says, "Arch, what the hell are you doing here?" when he gets in the car and all the guys can see him. David slides in so that he's sitting next to Neal, and it's—well, at least it’s one of those really expensive cars, with the big seating areas in the back, because everyone is still all sweaty and gross, but they can't change until they get back to the hotel. (And Archie is so taking a shower too, he feels kind of gross just getting in the car with them all—it reminds him of after P.E., when all the guys filtered into the locker room, bumping against each other and not caring about personal space, _ew_.)

Cook grabs his hand and tugs him back when he follows him in, making David fall and yelp at the sudden loss of control. When he falls, just slightly, he lands with his arm impacting Cook's chest, making him say, "Ow, jeez, Arch."

"You pulled me!"

"Doesn't mean you have to _elbow_ me in the gut," Cook points out, and David glares, because it really wasn't his fault. He says hi to Andy and Kyle and Monty as the car starts up and the driver leaves the arena, slowly to avoid any sneaky fans who try to run in front of the car and get it to stop.

They get to the hotel with only a few of the jokes going over David's head (because he didn't get why everyone started laughing when Monty said David would have to share Cook's hotel room, and was actually kind of embarrassed because, um, _his_ mind jumped to—but there's no way Monty was talking about that, so he just kind of stared and said, "What?" and everyone just laughed harder—and he sort of thought that maybe he _was_ making a joke about _that_ until Cook told them fuck off, which, really, really bad language and Cook even looked kind of upset, and it made David upset, and he mostly just tried to ignore Monty's jokes after that). When they all pile out of the car, though, everyone is in agreement that showers are in the immediate future, and not even Monty can bring himself to joke about it, too busy trying to get out.

"Alright, so, here, whatever Monty said, you will actually have to stay in my room? The hotel is booked months in advance, Archie," Cook says nonchalantly while letting David into said room. It's messy from the two weeks that Cook's been doing the shows here, in London. David's heart wants to break when he sees that the curtains are this weird yellow color, and that the comforter on the bed is striped green and blue. "Mind if I jump in the shower real quick?" Cook asks, already grabbing a towel from the closet. David shakes his head, and Cook says, "Cool, be right back out."

David waits until Cook has shut the door to the bathroom and turned on the water before shakily sitting down on the bed. What is he _doing_? If Cook says no—

By the time Cook wanders back out of the bathroom, dressed in a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt, David has lost all of the courage that got him on the plane to London in the first place. He doesn't remember what Claudia said about futures maybe not happening, but the things that make futures still do, or whatever else she’d tried to explain, and he doesn't remember why Daniel had shrugged and said why not try, it's not like he'd go broke on one plane ticket to London, now was it? He doesn't remember why they thought it was such a good idea, let alone how they convinced him it was, sneaking out of the house at four in the morning, not telling Dad or Mom or Anna where he was going, or even that he was going anywhere at all. David fists his hand in the _wrong sheets_ , and looks up, and says, smiling, "Um, I'm sorry? For showing up all randomly. I just—I still hadn't seen a show! I mean, yeah, in Manila... but I was performing with you, so this was different."

"... Yeah," Cook says, finally, staring at him. "It's cool, Arch. You can randomly show up whenever you want."

David nods and they fall into a short silence.

It’s a few minutes later when David takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, and then opens his mouth to tell Cook—to tell him everything, about the flashforward, about the hotel, about being in love in the future—about being in love _right now_ —and then deal with the consequences. But Cook speaks first, says, "It's kind of funny, actually."

"What?" David asks, looking up.

"That you came. I mean, I was kind of—tentatively, anyway, planning on going to Murray tomorrow. Tonight was the last show, so we're heading back to the states. I was going to drop in on you."

"You were—" David stares, his mouth hanging open. "You were coming to _Murray_? Tomorrow? On, on the fifth?"

"Yeah, well, I was going home afterwards, obviously, I know this is when you—you know, saw everything happen. The doctors said he'd be fine, but I still want to—Arch?"

“What hotel were you going to stay in?”

Cook gets a little line on his forehead, and he says, slowly, “The same one as always?”

David stands up, and looking straight at Cook, walks to him, fisting a hand in Cook's t-shirt and tugging him down until he can reach up high enough to kiss him, Cook’s mouth open in surprise. David has enough time to think, _His lips are just as soft as I remember,_ before Cook is ripping away, walking backwards, stumbling over the dirty clothes lying on the floor. His eyes are wide, and his mouth is open, a little trail of saliva visible on his bottom lip.

"Is this getting to be some thing with you?" Cook asks, after a minute, when David is still just standing there, looking up at him, unsure what _step number two_ is after kissing him.

"What thing?" David responds back, confused, taking a step back. Not—not the reaction he'd been going for, at all, he thinks.

"The whole kissing people in their hotel rooms thing! I get you were drunk with Neal, but I'm pretty sure you're not _right now_ , David," Cook says, waving his arms animatedly.

"Oh my Gosh, no, I kissed Neal because I thought he was you!" David blurts out, and then slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes widening.

Cook turns around, and puts a hand on the wall, leaning down. Finally, he says, "You—what?" not looking at David.

David moves back until he's sitting on the bed again, and then, falteringly, starts to explain what he probably should have five months ago when he fell unconscious on stage, and woke up in a hospital almost two hours later, remembering the feeling of Cook’s lips on his.

“In my—in my flashforward, I was there, with you, when your Mom called about Adam. I followed you out of the hotel room because you were so sad, and scared, and it was awful, and I _had_ to tell you when I woke up, because, it—it's Adam. He's your brother."

Cook walks over, and sits down next to him on the bed, slowly.

"Why didn't you ever mention that I was in your flashforward? Were we here? Is that why you came tonight?"

David shakes his head, and says, "No. You—you remember the last time you were in Murray? The suite you stayed in? The same—‘same one as always’?"

"Yeah."

"We were _there_ , and we—we were—" he struggles to find the words, ignoring the way his neck is flushed hot, and the way his stomach muscles are clenching. "We were in bed. Together. We were _together_ , Cook, and I—I mean—"

Cook isn't responding at all, isn't even looking at him, and David clenches his fists together. “Tomorrow—tomorrow we’re supposed to be at the hotel in Utah, and I’m—I’m supposed to be—I want to be there with you. But—I'm really—I'm in love with you. And I thought it was pointless, because tomorrow is the day, and we haven't even _seen_ each other in months, but Claudia made me come here, and, and, and you're not saying anything!"

"Arch," Cook says, tentatively, looking up. "David, you're in love with me?"

David flushes, but straightens his back and says, "Yes."

Cook shakes his head, and starts laughing a little, and David _remembers_ that laugh, the warm, husky one that Cook had used when he was mouthing David's chest, his hands roaming as David squirmed against the sheets. "When you told me—when you told me you kissed Neal? I was so pissed. You have—I didn't talk to him for a fucking month, like some sort of wronged teenager, because I thought you liked him. Why didn't you just _tell_ me?"

"How was I supposed to tell you! Just like, 'Oh, hey, I know you have a girl on your, um, lap, but I sort of saw a future where we were sleeping together!'"

"Yeah!" Cook says, grinning. "That would have worked like a charm."

And David barely sees it coming, this time, because the sheets are blue and green, and the curtains are that weird yellow color, and Cook is suddenly kissing him, for real, not a memory or a flashforward, just _real_.


End file.
